THE JOURNEY.

In fact, it was my intention to begin with telling you all about my journey to Landsberg, at the end of which I found your letter. The time selected for it had been settled upon, because it was most convenient in reference to my duties here, and because otherwise I should have had to wait until the present season, when the beauties of summer are mostly gone. Therefore, although at the time appointed I was as poor as a church rat, I was obliged to scrape together all my pennies and set off. Physically, heaven was most unfavourable to me; for of the fourteen days spent at Landsberg, only three were tolerably fine, and one of these I was obliged to sacrifice to a great feast; the other two I spent with my excellent Bethe in G——. That feast was the more hateful to me, as on that very day Bethe held confirmation in his church—a ceremony which I was most desirous of witnessing, as during the whole period that I officiated at Landsberg, I had never had an opportunity of holding a confirmation myself.

Those were the unfavourable points; but how many favourable conjunctures there were on the other side! My uncle had been very ill, so ill that rumours of his death had already been spread here; and I found him quite restored. The good Benecke had also been so ill as to inspire alarm, and I found him much better than I ventured to expect. The Beneckes had, moreover, been in a state of great domestic turmoil, in consequence of some official changes that were taking place; all that was well over, and everything in full progress, by the time I arrived. I took up my quarters at the Beneckes’, and not at my uncle’s, because to the former I knew it would be a greater pleasure, and because I should, in many ways, have been a tie upon my uncle. How delighted was good Mrs. Benecke when I arrived at about midnight, and how heartily rejoiced was he also to see once more his old boarder and house-friend! and how many thousand little details of what had happened in the family were told me with the most confiding openness! With what true satisfaction at my approval, Mrs. Benecke the next day communicated to me all her household affairs, all the little economical improvements she had introduced, and the successful issue of various hints given by me in former times! With what motherly joy she showed me, the very first night, her sleeping daughter, who had grown bigger and more healthy since I left them, and how earnestly she spoke of the joys and the anxiety which the child caused her! That which I had so long missed, viz., domestic joys and family pleasures—for in this family I had always been treated as one of its members—I enjoyed again in full draughts during the fourteen days that I remained with them. How long I shall have to live upon this store heaven only knows.

At Beneckes’ then, as you will understand, I had many pleasures, and felt very happy. Not so at my uncle’s. It is with deep sadness that I think of the impressions I received there. I found my uncle, indeed, tolerably recovered from his late illness, but, how changed! not outwardly, but inwardly. His mind had become blunted and insensible to matters which used to interest him; and, instead of the equable and moderately cheerful spirits which I was accustomed to see in him, there were now often-recurring fits of ill-humour and violent temper, of which his wife, and child, and niece, complained bitterly. Just as his body, which was never very fleshy, has become more and more dry, and the humours have, in consequence, lost their natural mildness and have grown more acrid, so also his disposition seems gradually to harden, and the feelings which still circulate in him to grow bitter and pungent. Alas, this is the true annihilation of man on earth; this is worse, at least worse to witness, than death. Before our last meeting, he once signed one of his letters, “Your decaying uncle,” and I remember at the time feeling pained and distressed at the expression; yet I formed no conception of the reality until I saw him; then I was seized with a pang, the like of which I had never before experienced.

Dear Lotte, promise me not to forget our uncle; write often to him, and let us try if we cannot, by the expression of our unwavering attachment, inspire him for a moment with greater joy in life, and prepare greater happiness for him than he derives from his own son, who vegetates at his side with much indifference. Oh, pity for the excellent man! this stem has lost its verdure and its sap.

THE MORNING HOURS.

Since my return from Landsberg, these hours have frequently been spent in so peculiar and agreeable a manner, that I think them worthy of some notice. Carl and I have conceived the idea, which has been approved by the doctors, that it would be very good for us both, but more especially for me, to bathe frequently. Now, as there is a very well-arranged bathing-house at about a hundred paces from my lodgings, Carl comes several times a week at five or six o’clock in the morning to fetch me. Of course, he finds me still in bed, and with me that means the same as asleep; and what a pleasurable awaking it is, when I hear his footsteps in the passage, and he comes in so full of friendliness and bids me good morning. In the greatest hurry I then don my clothes: in the meantime he fills a pipe, and then we start. In a safe bathing-room we lave our limbs in the somewhat coldish waters of the Planke, a little tributary of the Spree; at first shuddering at the cold, then laughing at our own cowardice; and, after the plunge, feeling extremely well and cheerful. On our return, Carl breakfasts with me, generally on milk, or, on festive occasions, on chocolate; and while this is being partaken of, we chat, or read, or perhaps play a game at chess, and then each to his work. As Carl cannot begin his occupations in the laboratory before seven, he does not neglect any duty in consequence of this bathing, and it has procured to us many a happy hour which we should not otherwise have enjoyed.

To-day we have again had one of our bathing mornings, and subsequently we graced our breakfast by sensible reading of a chemical work. These hours added to our intercourse, are the more valuable because this happiness cannot endure long, as you will have learned from Carl’s letter. A further bit of news, which you will not find in that letter, is, that he has accepted a situation in Westphalia, not very distant from the birth-place of our late father. It is, indeed, very far off; the place is called Arnsberg, belongs to the Elector of Cologne, and is situated on the Ruhr, certainly not less than fifty miles from here. Perhaps his good fortune will secure to him a definitive settlement in the native country of the Schleiermachers; perhaps, on the other hand, he may not stay there long, but soon draw nearer to us again.

24th August.

To-day this epistle must be closed, and not only to-day, but this forenoon, because from noon I shall be absent from home. Much that I had still to say, I shall hardly be able to touch upon. How much delightful chat there is in your letter about all the dear people that I know yonder! Those Silesian stars do not contribute a little to enliven my heaven here; and in the evening, out of doors, when man is destined to look into the distant worlds, I often look no farther than Gnadenfrei and its immediate neighbourhood, with wishes, the wings of which I am, alas! obliged to clip. Through the telescope, with which you have kindly furnished and continue to furnish my observatory, I am constantly making new discoveries in yon lovely constellations; new perfections disclose themselves to me, as nebulæ, not previously seen, sometimes appear within the field of the telescope, and I descry hours of pre-eminent happiness, just as the astronomer observes the increasing light of certain stars. Why will Z—— insist that she is eclipsed? I see nothing of the kind, and if her light shines sometimes with a silvery dimness only, that arises more frequently from the opaqueness of our atmosphere than from any defect in her. Her atmosphere is so pure, her expressions are woven together of such subtle fragrance, that it is not, indeed, every one who is gazing after stars that can discover it. And yet, no doubt, when she appears in the circle of her sister stars, each one rejoices at her sympathetic presence, and many a one wishes to be a planet ever to accompany her along her orbit. I must beg her, however, to leave my Ulmbaum in peace; I know best how matters stand there. This glorious tree¹ has, indeed, more summers and winters than other trees; and when it is in midwinter the poor vines suffer. But, after all, winter only consists in the withdrawal of the sap into the interior; and if, in consequence of this forced stoppage, the ducts suffer somewhat here and there, and the sap itself is subjected to fermentation, this only renders it the milder and the more fertilizing afterwards; and when summer comes round once more, the vines will again wind themselves up to the farthest points of the revivified branches, and mingle with its delicate leaves.

What a comfort it is to me when I think of my poor uncle, whose bodily decline is destroying his mental life, to turn to the excellent Z——, and see how her spirit comes out unscathed from amid the ashes of the devouring fire which is destroying her body! Out of this comparison, and out of all that I have said, she must compose a treatise such as it exists in my mind; but she must also deliver it in the tone that dwells in me, and that arises in every one who is looking towards distant stars, and who feels, whenever he enjoys a social pleasure in reality or in imagination, how disjointed and miserable his existence would be, if he could not live with, through, and in better beings. No doubt she, too, knows these harp-tones of earnest good-will, which render even a mediocre instrument agreeable to the ear, and which make one readily forgive the player any possible mistakes.

I was very glad to hear that you had at last taken your kind L—— (of whom, indeed, you say little enough in your letter) to Z——, although it only happened accidentally. Z—— will soon find that L—— also is worthy of refreshing herself in the shade of the elm-tree, and I hope that this visit has afforded L—— a pleasant hour at the close of the old year, and a pleasant prospect for the coming one. Her birthday I celebrated a day too late; my memory spoke to me about the 17th; but my sympathy is of a very enduring nature, and, what is more, and what I reckon among the blessings of my life, it is so little dependent upon sight and direct intercourse, that it requires no other nourishment than what I derive from your letters and accounts, which are quite sufficient to keep alive the idea of L—— and of her whole manner of being, which already dwells in me. That this birthday was to you so meagre in enjoyment, was, indeed, contrary to my presentiment; but this makes me the more impatient to hear all about the 21st, which was the day fixed for the second celebration. I dare say you have not neglected to draw up an account for me, which already lies ready to be despatched in your writing-desk, only waiting for the arrival of the Berlin epistle which is so shamefully behindhand. I have so often scolded myself very seriously, on your account, for my procrastination in writing, now I do it on my own account. For should I not almost have had a letter from you had not this one been so unduly retarded? When yours does come, I venture to hope it will contain not a little about tea-takings and musical and literary evenings with L——.

Having written the above, I made a long pause and chewed the end of my pen, while dwelling with delight on my great projected tour. There are, indeed, at present no prospects of its being carried out, but, nevertheless, I bear it very vividly in mind, and why should I not allow myself this enjoyment? How much that is beautiful and good should I not have to enjoy over again, and how much there would be that cannot quite be reclaimed. How every account which you give me, and every expression that you repeat to me, increase my desire to see and to know your amiable A—— and to be known by her. I am almost afraid, however, that unconsciously there may be some vanity hidden under this desire; but, nevertheless, I cannot suppress it, for however convinced I may be that my judgment does not deserve to have so much value attached to it, and that if it has proved correct, it is because my imagination knows how to supply that which distance prevents me from beholding, I feel that I well deserve to be a close witness of the life and actions of this noble woman. But at present I must forcibly restrain my inclination to talk about her, in order to save time (for I must soon dress for my clerical dinner) and paper sufficient to answer some of your questions.

[LXXII.] 9th September.

Your letter, dear Lotte, which I received last Wednesday, has made a strange and painful impression on me; the tone that it breathes throughout is so full of suppressed suffering, that it will be long before I recover from it. Poor soul, what heavy burdens are laid upon you! Is your body, then, a store-room for diseases, since no sooner is one removed than another takes its place? But what has pained me the most is your opinion of your inward feebleness, and of the evil influence of bodily suffering on the mind, which I cannot help thinking is an erroneous one. This must be wrong; your very letter proves the contrary; and L—— S—— must pardon me if I distrust her judgment in this matter. I know how one feels when he returns after an absence spent among new faces and under novel circumstances—how new and changed everything then seems to him, and how, more especially, everybody seems to be deficient in warmth and life, because no one is so full of the life of travel as the traveller himself. This has, no doubt, been her case too; and after the lapse of a few weeks she will, I dare say, discover that you are still the same. In the meanwhile do not allow her to persuade you of the contrary, for in such a state as yours, the mind is, alas! too prone to receive gloomy impressions. In fact, she cannot believe in it herself, otherwise so kind and sympathetic a person could not have smiled at the comparison with my uncle, whose mind, by the by, begins apparently to recover. But even if I be right, your physical state must not be allowed to remain any longer uncared for… …

Carl breakfasted with me this morning, and got his letter. Upon the whole, it was a melancholy birthday; his impending departure and your letter were not calculated to make us very cheerful, though I did my best to enliven us both. I communicated to him my project of sending you to some mineral bath, and after we had talked it over for some time, we both felt as consoled and as full of hope for you, as if the summer, which does not as yet think of taking leave of us, was again at the door, and you in the carriage ready to start for Flinsberg. Ah! if it were not so far off, if you were but well through the winter! Your extracts from the Urania we read together, and upon the whole they seemed to please me more than him. Carl intends to write to you explicitly on the subject: therefore I shall say no more. In a fortnight I shall no longer have the dear boy with me; but my firm conviction that he will not remain absent long, and that I shall see him again at the end of a year, makes me bear this more calmly. In the meanwhile his absence will create a great and painful void in my life, and the more so as letters from him are not to be depended upon. These are, it is true, as you say, but a poor compensation, yet they are better than nothing.

[LXXIII.] 27th September.

He is gone, the dear boy, and for me a great void is created. It will seem long to me before I hear at least of his safe arrival, and longer still until I obtain the certainty that I shall again have him near me. I see by your letters that he has written to you about our constant intercourse, and I will, therefore, not repeat. His presence here procured for me enjoyments which will ever be dear to memory, and the later period of his stay more particularly so, partly because we gradually learnt to know each other better, partly because the impending separation made every moment doubly precious. This morning we breakfasted once more together, and at dinner-time he was here for the last time, and quite ready for the journey. He brought me his letter to you and various things that he leaves here, and the last farewell was uttered in the midst of the confusion of starting. It is one of the few useful effects of human indolence, that it renders the moment of parting less painful, by causing so many things to be put off till the last moment that little else can be thought of. May Heaven guide him in safety to his place of destination, and soon bring him back again! The papers give accounts from time to time of republican movements that are taking place in the immediate neighbourhood of his future residence. This alarms me sometimes, and more than ever I now wish for a peace that shall settle these matters amicably, or in some other way determine the fate of those countries. Heaven forfend that any spreading fire should be kindled there! As much as I should like to see Carl living in a republic, in which every active spirit, whatever may be his calling, is allowed to take part in public affairs, so little would I like to think of him as being in any place where a republic is about to be formed. Fine weather he has for his journey, and I do hope it will remain so, that he may receive a favourable impression of the beautiful Hartz Mountains, which he is to pass by.

That, besides the loss to my brotherly affection, I also lose much in Carl in regard to the extension of my knowledge, you do not perhaps know. For some time I have been occupying myself in a certain measure with the physical sciences, and more particularly with chemistry, and as he has followed up his profession very scientifically while he has been here, I have learnt a good deal from him, more indeed than he has learnt from me in other directions. I am sure he has a more profound knowledge of the various sciences that have reference to his calling, than a hundred others, and yet without money this will be of no avail to him as far as outward success is concerned. Such are this miserable world and its ways!

[LXXIV.] 22nd October.

The one or two post-days have expanded into a couple of weeks, and the news I have to tell has in the meanwhile not decreased, but increased. A few days ago the Dohnas returned and brought me a great deal of news from Prussia. All are well, all live united; many a happy family festival was enjoyed in common during their stay; among others, Count Louis’ birthday on the 8th of September, which was celebrated by a grand military fête. Count Fabian, who, as ensign, has hitherto been living very uncomfortably at Königsberg, has got his lieutenant’s grade; and me they all remember with friendliness and love, so say the two Counts. It always does me good to hear from them, and my interest in those dear people will never cease.

The Counts have brought with them another Dohna, in whom I have discovered an old acquaintance, whom I knew when a boy at the Institution in Niesky, and who used to be Carl’s chum. He was an uncommonly good-looking boy then, but now his features, disfigured by the smallpox, are anything but handsome; what he has turned out mentally I cannot tell, having seen him once only. But, in fact, I meant to speak to you of a much more interesting acquaintance, which was, indeed, commenced during the summer, but which has not until lately become important and fertile in enjoyment to me. It is not a lady acquaintance, but a young man, by name Schlegel, who is staying here. I first learnt to know him in a society of which I am a member, and which meets for literary purposes, such as the readings of essays, communication of literary news, discussion of important literary works, &c. I do not know if I have ever written to you about this society, called the Wednesday Society; if not, a more detailed account of it shall be at your service on some future occasion. Here, then, I first learnt to know Schlegel; afterwards I saw him frequently at the Herzes’, and Brinkmann, who had made his acquaintance some years ago, brought us nearer to each other.

He is about twenty-five, and the extent and variety of his knowledge is almost inconceivable at his age. He possesses, moreover, an originality of intellect which, even here where there is so much intellect and so much talent, far surpasses all others, and in his manner there is an absence of artificiality, a frankness, and a childlike youthfulness, the combination of which with his other qualities is the most wonderful of all. Wherever he be, his wit and his simplicity make him the most delightful companion; but to me he is more than that, he is of the greatest and most essential benefit. I have never, it is true, been deprived of intellectual society here, and I have always known some man with whom I could talk about each individual science that interests me. Nevertheless, I always felt the want of a companion to whom I could freely impart my philosophical ideas, and who would enter with me into the deepest abstractions. This great void he has filled up most gloriously. To him I can not only pour out what is already in me, but by means of the exhaustless stream of new views and new ideas which is ever flowing into him, much that has been lying dormant in me, is likewise set in motion. In short, as regards my activity in the world of philosophy and literature, my more intimate acquaintance with him forms an epoch. I say my more intimate acquaintance, for, although I learnt to admire his philosophy and his talents much sooner, it is one of my peculiarities that I cannot allow any one to penetrate into the inmost recesses of my mind until I am satisfied of the purity and uprightness of his character. I cannot philosophize with any one whose moral sentiments I do not approve. Not until I had acquired such certainty in regard to these, as any one with common sense can derive from the intercourse and every-day expressions of a man, did I draw nearer to him; but now I am much in his society. He has not studied any so-called bread-science, nor does he wish to hold any office, his desire being, if possible, to live frugally and independently on the proceeds of his writings, which embrace none but important subjects, as he never condescends, for the sake of money, to bring mediocre wares to market. He is always spurring me on to write likewise; there are a thousand things, he says, that ought to be said, and which I am just the one to say; and since he has heard me read a little essay of my own composition, in the society which I have named, he leaves me no peace. We are at present meditating his joining me in my chambers at new year, and I shall feel a right royal exultation if the project be carried out; for at present I always lose an hour walking to and fro between his house and mine. Nota bene: His Christian name he has in common with me; he is called Friederich, and he is like me also in many of his natural failings: he is not musical, he does not draw, he does not like the French language, and he has bad eyes. During the last week, I have spent a good many of my forenoons, which I generally hold very sacred, with him, in order to peruse with him a philosophical work, which he cannot well give out of his hands. That I have spoken so much about him will not, I trust, be displeasing to you, as he is at present one of the persons here whom I like best.

It is an eternity since I heard from our mother, and from Arnsberg I have not either any accounts, though Carl promised to write as soon as he arrived. Were I to express how much I miss him, and how everything that I feared in this respect has been more than realized, I might go on for ever. But I will not enter on the subject, for of what use would it be to any one? It is very late, so late that your night’s rest may probably be half over. May you repose sweetly!

Do not dwell too much on the loss of your never-to-be-forgotten Z——. I do not ask you to put another in her place—no, dearest, a friend can never be replaced. Whoever is so happy as to have several friends, must feel that each one is to him something that the other cannot be; a doublette in friendship, I suppose, no one has ever known. But at the same time that you feel your irreparable loss, you ought also to feel gratitude for and joy in those who remain to you; for, surely, these are not few: indeed, there are not many people, even among those who know how to value friends, who can make such an enumeration as you can.

As you wish it, I suppose I must send you back the little essay “On Exuberance of Heart,” which I ran away with from Silesia. I have read it through once more, and it seems to me that, after all, the author has not any true experience of what exuberance of heart is, for otherwise he would not have separated it from true sensibility, but would rather have shown how intimately connected both are. In reality, the one is nothing without the other; and only where both are united, is that higher element present, which alone gives to both their true value. Let this serve in lieu of all remarks which I meant to have appended. Upon the whole, whoever has true exuberance of heart will not be likely to write about it, because his whole being will be pervaded by it; at all events, he will not write like this author, because that which we find within ourselves at all times, that with which every one of our actions, even the most contradictory, is penetrated, that we can hardly look upon as a distinct something, separate and different from all our other qualities.

The letter from my uncle I likewise enclose, though it is somewhat stale. To-day is quite an exceptional day with me; it is Sunday, and I have not preached. But I attend at present a very interesting course of lectures on Sundays from eleven till one, (you may conceive how difficult this is to manage on the Sundays when I preach twice), and, as I have been to the lecture to-day, I have not been entirely inactive. The rest of the day I shall, probably, spend together with Schlegel.

I do not know if I have told you that Mrs. C—— is here, on business connected with a melancholy domestic occurrence. Her daughter, who has for the last ten years been married to a military man, and living very unhappily with him, being unable to bear this state any longer, has at length left her husband, and a suit for divorce is now pending. Nothing is more common at present than unhappy marriages; and if in the time of Christ this was a proof of hardness of heart, in the present times it seems rather to spring from poverty of heart, i. e., from the fact that, from the very commencement, people seem to connect no idea and no ultimate object with their loves and their lives. Happy are you members of the congregation who do not behold any outward evidences, at least, of this state of things. Farewell! Let me soon hear from you again.

Your faithful Brother.

[LXXV.] Berlin, 21st November, 1797.

How often and with what feelings I have thought of you to-day, you will readily imagine; and in the midst of all the pleasure I have enjoyed, this thought has been fraught with anxiety, for who knows in what state of health you may be spending this day, poor sufferer! With self-reproach also the thought has been accompanied, for how can I know whether you have already received my long-delayed, and, I have no doubt, intensely-longed-for, letter? How long may you not have felt anxious about it, and what sad presentiments may you not have had in connection with it! But I will not begin to scold myself, for it might end by your not hearing anything about this day.

Many and diverse pleasures I have enjoyed, and this is the second recapitulation of them. I had, in fact, determined to spend the day quietly and very diligently in my cell, and to go in the evening to a friend of Schlegel and myself, a daughter of Moses Mendelsohn, who is married here to a banker, and who had invited us to tea, but who did not know that it was my birthday. I was sitting in deep négligé at breakfast in the morning, when the eldest Dohna, who had not been to see me since his return, made his appearance. He stayed unusually long, and looked so often out of the window, that I could hardly help suspecting that there was something in the wind, though I could not imagine what it might be. At length came his brother, who began with expressing his congratulations, and I thus perceived that my birthday had been betrayed; and very soon after drove up a carriage with Mrs. Herz—whom I frequently visit with the Dohnas—and Mrs. Veit, the lady at whose house I was to spend the evening with Schlegel. The husbands of the two ladies sent to excuse their absence on account of business. Suddenly my table was cleared, and again spread with chocolate and cakes, which had been ordered by Dohna. The most cordial congratulations poured in on me from all sides, as did also little presents, to keep up my remembrance of this friendly festivity. Mrs. Herz gave me a watch-guard, because my chain was in a most deplorable condition; Mrs. Veit gave me a pair of gloves and a wine-glass, out of which to drink the Burgundy which she had ordered for my stomach; and Schlegel, a small bottle of perfume for my linen, which he knows I am very fond of. You may conceive how delighted I was with these proofs of the sympathy of five persons who are very dear to me, and for that very reason how little I could say about it.

Schlegel played me a little trick, by inciting the others to join in choro in his old wish that I should be industrious, that is to say, that I should write books. Nine-and-twenty years, and nothing done as yet, he went on repeating, and I was at last obliged to give him my hand in solemn pledge, that I would write something original before the end of the year—a promise that weighs heavily on me, as I have not the least desire to be an author. As a compensation, however, a glorious project, which had been agitated for some days, was finally decided upon, namely, that Schlegel shall join me through the winter. You may conceive how I exult in the prospect of exchanging my empty solitude for such companionship, and how long the six weeks will seem that separate us from the new year. Towards noon my pleasant visitors left me alone to reflect upon the happiness of meeting so much kindness on all sides, and upon this delightful beginning of a new year of life.

In the evening I went to the Veits’, where we were all, Schlegel included, very merry, and where my health was once more drunk in a glass of good, but only moderately strong punch, such as I like it. Thence I returned home about an hour ago to write to you and to B——. What do you say of this birthday? Nothing was wanting but a letter from you, and that the Sacks and the Eichmanns should have known it, to make it as happy as it possibly could be in Berlin. Even as it is, I am penetrated with joy and gratitude. How hearty they all were, the excellent creatures! how expressive of sincere regard, nay, of sincere confidence, was every look and word! It was a great pleasure to find myself at the side of Schlegel, who is so superior to me in genius, wit, and every social talent, and to feel that, nevertheless, I am loved by those who know us both. It must be something that belongs essentially to my individuality that attracts them, but what is this something? I do not know. And what treasures besides have I not elsewhere, in east, and west, and south? nay, I have come to the conviction that few are as rich as I, and I might grow presumptuous, did I not know, that even this precious jewel, man holds but in a fragile vessel. In Gnadenfrei also, I know I have been remembered, and warm and heartfelt thanks I tend to the kind souls who have participated in your joy and in your thoughts. When joy makes us sad, it has reached the highest degree in its thermometer, and thus stands mine to-day.

[LXXVI.] 19th December, 1797.

… . . Most heartily do I wish you joy in the abode of your choice. Heaven grant that you may there find peace and tranquillity, and, above all, health. My poor sister, how much you seem to have suffered during the period which your letter embraces! That while in that condition you were constantly in fear of not being able to fulfil your duty with the conscientiousness which you have made a law to yourself, seems to me so natural that it disarms all the reproaches that I would address to you. That you have written so little to me from your new place of abode is, as you will readily understand, not quite satisfactory, but I cannot find fault with it, as in the contrary case I should not as yet have received the letter which at the present moment I so much need. To see again the old and well-known room, and the old and well-known faces, must indeed have been pleasant; but where is L—— Sch——? What has become of the little tea-parties, at which you were never disturbed by an uninvited chamber-companion? I depend upon your sending me very soon a letter giving a detailed account of your inward and outward condition—also of all that regards economics.

The great change in my condition is likewise soon to take place. The day after to-morrow Schlegel moves in, and to-day his room is being scoured, and everything put in order for his reception. It will be just the 21st. How quickly the month has passed since my birthday, and how rapidly the year is hastening towards its close! As far as I am concerned, it is dying of rapid consumption; but one benefit it will still confer upon me, which will long contribute to my happiness. Good night, it is late. You will perceive that it is mostly in the evening that I write to you. Can we do better before committing ourselves to the arms of that partial death—sleep, than to visit in thought those who are dearest to us on earth? How long have you already been asleep within your cloistral walls? Contrary to your usual habit, you have not even written to tell me on what day you changed your abode. You must not forget to do so.

[LXXVII.] 31st December.

I do not know how it has happened that the year has come to an end without this letter being sent off. First came Christmas, and I had to preach, and then came Schlegel’s entry into the house, and his settling down, and thus time has slipped away without asking my permission. What a glorious change Schlegel’s being with me makes in my existence! How new it is to me only to have to open the door to find a rational being to talk to,—to be able to wish good morning to some one, and to receive a similar greeting in return, as soon as I awake,—to have some one to sit opposite to me at table, and to whom I can communicate in the morning the good spirits which I bring home with me in the evening! Schlegel generally rises an hour earlier than I do, because I dare not, on account of my eyes, burn lights in the morning, and I therefore arrange matters so as not to awake before half-past eight. Sometimes, however, he lies in bed and reads, and I am generally awakened by the clattering of his coffee cup. From his bed he can open the door that separates my room from his, and then begins our morning chat. When I have done breakfast, we work some hours without interfering with each other; in general, however, we make a little pause before dinner, to eat an apple, of which we have a large and very choice provision; and while so doing, we discuss the subjects of our studies. Then begins the second period of study, which lasts until dinner-time, that is to say, until half-past one. As you are aware I get my dinner from the Charité, but Schlegel has his brought to him from a restaurant. Whichever comes first is first consumed, then follows the second course, then a couple of glasses of wine, so that we spend very nearly an hour at dinner. Of our afternoons I cannot give so decided an account; but I am sorry to say that I am generally the first to fly out of the cage, and the last to return in the evening. However, the whole of the latter part of the day is not devoted to social enjoyment; for several times in the week I attend lectures, and I also deliver some—of course privatissime—to some good friend or other, and not until this is done do I go whithersoever inclination directs me. On my return home in the evening at about ten or eleven, I find Schlegel still up, but he seems only to be waiting to say good night to me, and then he goes to bed. I, on the contrary, then generally sit down to work until towards two o’clock, for from that hour until half-past eight one may have sleep enough.

Our friends are pleased to call our chumming together a marriage, in which all are unanimous that I must represent the wife; and many remarks, both grave and merry, are made upon the subject. Since Schlegel has been here, it has happened to me once or twice to remain a whole evening at home, and we have then taken a cosy tea together from seven to ten, and chatted to our hearts’ content. But, probably, you would now like to hear something about the man himself, with whom I have formed this intimate acquaintance? In fact, I do not know how much I have already told you about him, and therefore, once for all, I shall give you a slight sketch of him. In regard to intellect, he is so infinitely superior to me, that I cannot speak of his mind except with profound reverence. It is only quite lately, since I have, so to say, seen his ideas germinate and grow, that I have learned fully to appreciate how quickly and deeply he penetrates into the spirit of every science, every system, every writer; with what high and impartial criticism he assigns to each his place; how beautifully his varied knowledge is organized into a harmonious system; how every work that he undertakes is begun, not at random, but in accordance with a great preconceived plan; and with what perseverance he carries out everything that he has once commenced! But you will, no doubt, be more interested in his heart and disposition than in his intellect and genius. The chief characteristic of his disposition is, I think, its childlikeness; for he is frank and cheerful, naïve in all his expressions, rather volatile, a deadly enemy of formality and pedantry of all kinds, ardent in his wishes and inclinations, generally well inclined towards everybody, but also, as children very frequently are, somewhat suspicious and full of antipathies. His character being as yet not very firm, and his opinions of men and circumstances not quite determined, he will be easily governed by any one to whom he gives his full confidence. What I miss in him is, that tenderness of feeling and that delicate appreciation of the pleasing trifles of life and the refined expression of elevated sentiments, which often, in small matters, unconsciously reveal the whole character. Just as he prefers books with large print, so he likes men with large and distinct features. That which is merely gentle and beautiful has no great attractions for him, because, judging too much by analogy to his own character, he holds everything for weak that is not fiery and strong. Although these peculiar defects do not diminish my affection for him, they, nevertheless, make it impossible for me to unveil to his gaze, or to render comprehensible to him various tendencies in my disposition. He will always be my superior; but I shall know and understand him more thoroughly than he will ever know and understand me. His appearance is rather striking than handsome. A robust and well-developed, but not elegant or full, figure, a very characteristic head, a pale face, very dark curly hair, cut short, and without powder, and somewhat inelegant, yet fine and gentlemanlike attire—such is the outward appearance of my “better half” for the time being.

In your letter, my dear, you say something about real, earnest marriage, which is a very important matter. You cannot possibly be serious in supposing that this can in the most distant manner be ridiculous in my eyes, for you know too well how much I value domesticity and sincere affection. I will, on some future occasion, fully communicate to you my thoughts on this subject; cursorily, I cannot touch upon it; only so much I may say that, alas—alas, your supposition is most likely to turn out true! Last night I had a long and very remarkable conversation with Henrietta Herz about how much of what dwells in each of us is lost in consequence of outward circumstances. Ah, with such love of family life as I possess, how much that is in me will be lost, if I should never marry—and yet!——but I will not make myself melancholy; and if I dwell on this subject, I am on the right road towards it.

My letter must be posted this afternoon, and as I have still to preach, and also to prepare a translation for my English lesson to-morrow, I must leave all other points in your letter unanswered, and many things untold. That my best wishes accompany you in the new year, I need hardly say. May it bring you restored health. May you miss nothing in your new position that was dear to you in the old. That in saying this, I am thinking more particularly of L——, you will readily understand. Do not omit to write to me how your friendly intercourse is continued. The address on your letter seems to be in her handwriting, and that is a sign that you still see each other. The double S in the seal I have not, however, seen on some of your last letters. Ah, many a time a small distance causes a great separation, and sometimes a wall suffices to break off entirely the friendly relations between two sympathetic souls. Relieve me from this anxiety, and present my best wishes to L——, and Z——, and A——. May each of these loveable characters be happy! May no outward pressure convert the spontaneous movements of tender hearts into spasmodic exertions, and no unfavourable atmosphere change the sweet breathings of a benevolent spirit into deep sighs! God’s blessing upon you all. Write soon. Can you not let me have a little letter for the Westphalian also? It will do him good.

Your faithful Brother.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.²

[LXXVIII.] 1st January, 1798.

Here is the fragment for you, dear friend. The convictions which it contains stand by themselves; but the prospect that it opens up to me, your continued kindness can alone realize.

When a calm and noble soul moves between the lovely banks of benevolence and love, its whole life shapes itself in harmony with these sentiments. It resembles a quiet rivulet, which not only mirrors the blue sky in all its brightness, but which also reflects back a softened image of the gray and dusky clouds, because the varied tints of the lovely flowers that adorn its banks are blended with their gloomy hues. When the delicate utterances of such a soul are revealed to a trusted friend—for only he who reposes on his bosom hears the beatings of his friend’s heart—it multiplies in him its own beautiful existence; for the life of him who is allowed to contemplate and to participate in a beautifully moulded life, cannot but flow calmly side by side with it; and the life of him who is permitted to behold the calm repose of a well-ordered mind, cannot be utterly destitute of beauty, for with lovely magic such sight dispels or holds in check everything that is inimical to the graces.

Schleiermacher to his sister Charlotte.

[LXXIX.] 30th May.

You must not be astonished, dear, that my letter-writing progresses so remarkably slowly; nothing but well-being and enjoyment of life are at the bottom of it. The summer has caught me in its meshes and will not let me loose. In consequence, I do only the half of what I intend to do, and yet I am not really displeased with myself. I live and enjoy, I help others to pass many an agreeable hour, and am, besides, sometimes useful to them; and what more can we do in this world? The most of my time I spend at present with Henrietta Herz. She lives during the summer in a pretty little house in the Thiergarten, where she receives a select circle only, and where I can, therefore, thoroughly enjoy her company. As a general rule I spend at least one whole day every week with her. There are but few persons with whom I could do this; but a variety of occupations and pleasures make the day pass most agreeably. She has taught me Italian, or, rather, is still teaching me. We are reading Shakspeare together; we study physics; I impart to her a little of my knowledge of the natural sciences; we take up some good German book or other; and in the intervals between these various occupations we take delicious walks and converse with the utmost candour on the most important subjects. In this manner we have spent our time since the beginning of spring, and no one has disturbed us. Herz values me and loves me in spite of the great dissimilarity between us. Mrs. Herz’s sisters, a couple of dear girls, rejoice whenever I come, and even her mother, a peevish and austere woman, has formed an affection for me.

Can you conceive that, amid all this, we have had some very painful days, caused by our best friends? Schlegel and Mrs. Veit have taken it into their heads that I have grown cold to the former, and that Henrietta Herz has become indifferent to the latter—her oldest and most intimate friend. Mrs. Veit upbraided me for not being to Schlegel what I ought to be, for not treating him with frankness in regard to his works and his actions, and for want of consideration for his feelings. To her, she further said, I never came; it was only when people were at death’s door that they seemed to awaken my sympathy; all that I did was par charité; when people were well again and happy, I left them to themselves. Schlegel, on his side, confessed to me that he was jealous of Henrietta Herz, because my friendship for her had developed itself so rapidly and had attained a point to which he had never been able to bring my affection for him. He was limited to participation in my intellectual life and my philosophical ideas; to her I opened my heart. What a deal I had to explain, and what a contrast I formed to the others, with my composure and my firmness.

On closer investigation I found even more than appeared on the surface. The fact is that both Schlegel and Mrs. Veit were uneasy lest I was deceiving myself in regard to my feelings, and feared that passion was at the bottom of my friendship for Mrs. Herz, and that sooner or later I would discover this, and in consequence be very unhappy. This was more than I could stand; it made me laugh immoderately for hours. That commonplace people think, in respect to other commonplace people, that men and women cannot be intimate without falling in love with each other, is a well-known fact; but that those two should think so of us two! So extraordinary did it seem to me, that I could not enter upon the subject, but only shortly assured Schlegel on my word, that it was not so, and that it never could be so: but poor Mrs. Herz was deeply distressed for some days. However, thank Heaven, at present all is right again, and we go on our way undisturbed. Schlegel’s society I do not, however, often enjoy at present, for during the last few days his brother, from Jena, who is known as a poet and as the translator of Shakspeare, has been here. He lives in a family to which I cannot go frequently, and Schlegel is almost constantly with him. This brother is neither in depth nor earnestness equal to the Schlegel here; he is a polished and elegant man, possesses great knowledge, artistic skill, and sparkling wit; but that is all. I told Schlegel beforehand that I was sure his brother would not feel any interest in me, and it seems that I was not mistaken. A few days ago I dined with them both at Iffland’s, whom I had seen once or twice before, and whom I found exceedingly pleasant. The comic talent of this man is most extraordinary; he is full of lively and amusing anecdotes, and while narrating them he acts them out so admirably, that on these occasions one enjoys his art even more than on the stage. With this he is exceedingly good-natured, which is rare in persons possessing this gift; and the knowledge that his sentiments, of which, however, he makes no display, render him worthy of esteem, makes you feel quite at ease in his presence.

[LXXX.] Berlin, 25th July, 1789.

The long delay of your letter—a circumstance to which I am so little accustomed—caused me, as you may suppose, considerable anxiety, and I was just thinking of sending you a little reminder before starting, when, happily, your dear epistle with its pleasant explanations arrived. You will see that I have also been travelling, but this was only an affair of a few days, a little excursion to Freienwald, from which I returned last Friday. But in order of time I must first tell you of some disagreeable occurrences which, like everything else, you must undergo with me.

At the beginning of the present month Schlegel left me, to join his brother on an excursion of a few weeks to Dresden, where they have a married sister. As I perceive from your letter that the Preussische Jahrbücher reach you, and tolerably rapidly, I shall keep for Carl my copy with the fine poem which the elder Schlegel wrote shortly before their departure, on occasion of the taking of the oath of allegiance. I wish, however, to call your attention to it; it is masterly in point of versification, and is more full of thought and allusions than any occasional poem I ever saw. I hope that it will please you also.

My state of temporary widowhood seemed very hard at first, and even to this day is difficult to bear, although during the latter part of Schlegel’s stay here we saw each other but seldom, and now we write to each other every week like an affectionate wedded couple; but the privation of his society precipitated a melancholy discovery, which I should, however, in every case have made later.

Our whole circle had for some time been complaining of my being thoroughly maussade, devoid of all pleasantry and wit, but after Schlegel’s departure I felt suddenly that I was not only depressed in spirits, but really ill. I had a distaste for everything, was sleepy from morning to evening, and felt thoroughly exhausted. This state, but more especially the sleepiness, increased daily. Herz advised me to let myself be bled; but I was loth to do so, because two bleedings, which I submitted to in Prussia, had done me a great deal of harm, and I insisted that I had altogether no blood to lose. I took additional exercise, drank an increased quantity of water, and changed my diet, but in vain. During my studies, at table, and almost while walking, as also in the midst of the most pleasant company, I fell asleep. When at last this went so far that one Sunday, though struggling hard to keep awake, I fell asleep in the sacristy between the sermon and the communion, Herz advised me very earnestly to have a vein opened at once, and I was thus obliged to part with eight ounces of blood, which proved to be of unusual thickness and weight. This relieved me very much, and in a few hours already I felt much more lively than before, but the next day I had the most excruciating pains in my arm; I dragged myself with much difficulty to Mrs. Herz’s house—her husband had started for a watering-place that very morning. The surgeon was sent for, and while he was examining and pressing the vein, which seemed perfectly healed, I fell into a kind of swoon from sheer agony, though in general I can bear a good blow, and am by no means apt to give in to pain. Applications of glowing ashes, so hot that no one else could bear to touch them, and that they burnt Mrs. Herz’s hand, reduced the pain so considerably that I was able to drive out to the Thiergarten in the evening to welcome my friend Bartholdi, who had arrived from Stettin. The vein then began to suppurate gently, but it is not yet healed, and I still go about with my coat-sleeve slit up and with my arm in a sling, and any abrupt movement causes me great pain. But this is a trifle, and I am truly rejoiced at having got rid of that horrid drowsiness and at being able to work again, for I have promised Schlegel to be very diligent during his absence.

Before I leave the subject, I must, notwithstanding my complaints, save the honour of my nerves in your estimation. They are in reality not at all weak, and I believe that Farmer Martin would even declare them to be a good middle sort of hempen nerves with a very slight admixture of silk. He who does not know what fear is, and is as little acquainted with nervous fits, who takes no harm in a draught, and who can use his brain in spite of violent pains in the head, he cannot be said to have weak nerves. The nerves of my eyes alone are affected in a peculiar manner, and, although I suffer less in this respect since I am here, I cannot help fearing that my eyes will in a short time refuse to do me proper service, and that in ten years they will fail me entirely. This by the way.

On the day on which the oath of allegiance was taken, and of the festivities in honour of which, I saw nothing, because I feared to venture into the crowd with my arm, I had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Herz take possession again of her summer residence, and since then we have enjoyed many pleasant days together there. The excursion to Freienwald I made in her company. We had a delightful day for the journey. We were both in excellent mood, and talked over many interesting matters. While at Freienwald, I lived in a house the lower part of which was inhabited by a madman, in which I was favoured in the evening with a stump of tallow-candle in a kitchen candlestick, and where the pigs came up in droves to my room on the second floor and laid themselves outside my door. The whole day long, however, I was with the Herzes, and I did not therefore mind the inconveniences of my lodging.

The mode of life at the baths and the frequenters of the place seemed to me equally vapid and detestable; but next to Potsdam, the neighbourhood is certainly the prettiest in this poor Mark Brandenburg. I found here a rich and luxuriant vegetation, such as I had not seen since I came to this province. I rejoiced to witness once more the native industry of my country, and each day was marked by an excursion to some interesting spot in the neighbourhood, and thus it was only in bad weather that we were limited to the actual watering-place. The home journey I was obliged to undertake alone; Henrietta Herz will not return until to-morrow with her husband. In the meanwhile I have again had a little trouble here.

Sack had been deputed by the church directory to inquire whether I would accept the appointment of court preacher at Schwedt, a pleasant little place, where the congregation is rather considerable, and the emoluments such as to make the living rank among the better ones in the country. Sack was in favour of my accepting, and you may conceive that this business put me into a fluster. However, after mature consideration, I declined; for, as you may imagine, in going thither I should have been obliged to renounce many studies which I am now carrying on with great zeal, and my scientific education would at once have come to a standstill on account of my remoteness from all auxiliary means and all literary intercourse; while, on the other hand, I should be thrown into the society of a luxurious little city where evening parties and card-playing prevail to a great extent, and it seemed to me that it would be time enough in ten years, if need were, to purchase at this price a yearly revenue of about six hundred dollars, on which, after all, a family could live but very poorly. The kind court-preacher did not directly recognize this, and tormented me by insisting upon my taking further time for reflection, after the lapse of which I could not, however, give a more favourable answer. As yet I have not had an opportunity of explaining matters fully to him; and I fear it will be no easy task to make him understand me, and that he will misinterpret my motives. It is a very painful feeling to be unable to render quite clear, to a person whom you so highly value, motives which you know to be intimately connected with your whole inner being, and it is on this account, more especially, that I have alluded to this occurrence as disagreeable.

And now, dearest, I must cease, out of regard for my eyes.

[LXXXI.] 2nd August.

What pleasure your visit to Herrnhut has given me I need hardly tell you in so many words, dear. How it has recalled to my mind my own journey thither (before I left Niesky for Berlin)! I was indeed very isolated there; all my travelling companions found friends and relatives in abundance, but I not a soul; yet the place itself and the sight of the venerable men who constituted the conference of the United Elders, as also the beauty of the surrounding country, made the days of my stay very happy. To the Heinrich’s mountain I went daily, and several of the views from that spot I should still like to paint if I could. But how is it that you say nothing about the Hut Mountain, where rest the ashes of so many remarkable persons, and which makes so imposing and delightful an impression on account of its destination and the manner in which it is laid out? I hope you did not fail to visit it? At the time I allude to we went from Hernnhut through Zittau to Eubin, and I am sorry to think that you should not likewise have seen these smiling landscapes and the remarkable mountain itself. But beauties of nature are nothing compared to human beings, and how many delightful people have you not met in Niesky and Herrnhut! All that you say about them is too little to satisfy me, and I long to have fuller and more detailed accounts. I should have liked so much to hear more about your dear H. A.; her mode of life and her intercourse with her pupils, how many she has, and what subjects you discussed with each other.

Your accounts of St. —— have not caused me very great pleasure. How is it possible to be so disorderly in the midst of the most orderly people in the world, and to show so little talent for education, though living in such a strictly domestic circle. Poor E——, whom I went to see at Charlottenburg the other day, has not either any very great talent in this direction, but then she has five children, the eldest of whom is not eight years old. Indeed, it is a peculiar matter this education. Whether I have a talent for it I do not know; my experiment at Schlobitten was not sufficient to enable me to answer the question; but, at present, I have experience enough, and daily gain more, and the desire I have also, and sometimes I feel quite alarmed at the thought that I have nobody to educate. When I am at the Eichmanns’ or the Sacks’, or when I am surrounded by the younger sisters of Henrietta Herz and some of their friends, nice girls, of about seventeen, I always try my hand a little at educating; but, at present, that is all that I am able to do. Next winter I have promised to teach them all manner of things. It seems to me that it is the one great duty of every human being to educate others, be it old people or young ones, his own children, or the children of others. I am far from having fulfilled this duty as I ought, and as I do not know how it will be in future, I think it best not to neglect any opportunity that offers. Sometimes I try to persuade myself that people who write books are, in reality, educating the world to the best of their knowledge; but this is not true; book writing is a strange kind of activity, without life, without a face-to-face encounter, without real use. Preaching is better; yet, according to the prevailing arrangements, it is not by any means what it might be.

But to return to your journey. I am very sorry that you did not see Albertini, for I am very anxious to know how he lives with his wife, whether he has children, and whether he still keeps me in remembrance. How often, when I am reading with Schlegel or with Henrietta Herz, my mind reverts to him and our common studies at Niesky! We are indeed far from each other now, and all connection between us has ceased, but the depths of his heart are still known to me, and I can form to myself a very lively and distinct image of what he must be at present. Should we ever meet he will probably find his former Pylades more altered than he is himself.

[LXXXII.] 4th August.

I have just returned from the so-called lady traveller, who in her letters on Berlin, alludes so impressively, and in so extraordinary a manner, to the Jewish ladies here. She is a Mrs. Unger, an elderly, sickly, and fretful woman, who for many years, probably, has not left Berlin for more than a few days. What has made her take this strange dislike to the Jews I cannot tell; but it is said to be of ancient date. That young savants and élégants frequently visit the great Jewish houses here, is very natural, for they are by far the richest non-noble families in this city, and almost the only ones that receive company, and in whose circle, owing to their numerous foreign connections, you may meet strangers of all ranks; therefore, whoever likes to mix in good society without much ceremony, gets introduced to these families, where every person of talent, be it even only social talent, is well received, and no doubt well entertained, for the Jewish ladies—the men devote themselves too early to commerce—are highly cultivated, are able to converse on all subjects, and are generally perfect mistresses of some one or other of the fine arts. I myself would undoubtedly visit some of these houses, had I not once for all determined to limit the circle of my acquaintance, and were I not repelled by the disparity of culture between the two sexes, which renders it but too evident that the strangers visit the house on account of the ladies exclusively. With the Herzes and the Veits it is very different; the former, it is true, also see a great deal of company, and few remarkable persons that come to Berlin omit visiting their house, while their home connections are likewise most distinguished; yet they cannot be said to keep open house, as it is called, and I, in particular, go there quite en famille, as I generally avoid frequenting their large parties, which are little to my taste. Indeed, Mrs. Herz herself tries to contract the circle of her intimate acquaintances very much, and were it not for her husband, and also because she is once for all a celebrity, I believe she would associate with but a very small number of persons. As for the Veits, they cannot at all be reckoned among the class in question, as they live very retired. In as far as concerns this point, I therefore belong neither to the young savants nor to the young élégants, although in other respects I do my best to be ranked with both.

With Sack, also, I have within the last days come to a thorough explanation regarding my Jewish associates. He told me frankly, that one of the reasons that made him so anxious that I should accept the appointment at Schwedt, was fear lest my mode of life might eventually prove an obstacle to my promotion here, and he hoped that an absence of a couple of years might perhaps remedy what might otherwise become an insuperable objection. He was not, he said, as I well knew, so pedantic as to object generally to intercourse with Jews (indeed his father and his father-in-law were both constant associates of Mendelsohn’s); but for such bureaux d’esprit, and such society as Mrs. Unger had described, he confessed he had no taste, and if it became generally known that I lived so entirely among these people, it would infallibly produce an unfavourable impression on many persons; while at the same time he feared that the tone which prevailed in that society would gradually inspire me with indifference towards, and a distaste for, my profession. Regarding the latter point I endeavoured to reassure him; and relative to the former I did my best to enlighten him. Ah, what a deal of mischief is done by persons who write about what they do not quite know or understand… . .

[LXXXIII.] 12th August.

I little expected, poor dear, that you were so soon to lose your noble-minded Z——. A mature and experienced friend, as she was, is a treasure which no one is likely to find a second time. As regards herself, nothing better could have happened,—and in saying this, I do not allude merely to her happy release from bodily suffering—for this she might have borne much longer—but, as you say that her mental powers were visibly declining, death was the greatest boon Heaven could grant. She, excellent woman, must have welcomed the friend that loosened the bonds which had so long oppressed her. The extent of your loss I feel most vividly, though there were many things between you and her, of which no clear conception has ever been given to me. You will hardly find any one to fill her place, for the friendship of younger persons is never the same thing. Nevertheless, hold fast that which is left to you; you are still rich in dear friends, near and distant, with whom your heart entertains beautiful reciprocal relations, giving and taking at one and the same time. Continue then to give and to take in ever richer measure, and bestow upon others that which you can no longer bestow upon her. Alas, it is a pitiful account to keep, yet it is the only expedient that is left to us unfortunates. I fear that a similar loss is impending over me; for if I find my uncle this time as low in body and mind as last year, I doubt that we shall keep him long. The sight of a corpse and the dwelling on the dead envelope of the departed spirit, would also to me be painful; there is something very shocking to the feelings in it, and neither joy nor consolation can be derived from it. Any little relic of the departed that we may treasure up and keep by us, is in my eyes of much greater value. I do not possess anything connected with any of my beloved dead except written characters traced by their hand; and from one point of view, these are, indeed, more valuable than anything else. They are the impress of the spirit itself, only during a fleeting moment it is true, yet in a way that nothing else approaches… . . If you have no letters written by your departed friend, I think you would do well to ask the chaplain to give you some little remembrance of her; I should do so without hesitation.

In a few days—but what day I cannot now fix—I shall get into the post-waggon, and start for Landsberg, where I shall remain a fortnight or three weeks.

Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz.

[LXXXIV.] Landsberg, 3rd September, 1798.

Yesterday I preached, to the great delight of my cousin; whether to that of the other people present I would not undertake to say, for I behaved quite contrary to good breeding, and gave them a sound lesson, of which I knew they stood in need. It made a peculiar impression upon me to find myself again in my old pulpit; it was half joy and half fear; and both emotions seem to me very natural. It was as if the two years that lay between me and the time I used to stand there and preach had been blotted out with one stroke, and how much that is good and beautiful do not these two years embrace! It is not true that we feel the goods of life most keenly by contrast; for here, where I am surrounded by so much that is good and beautiful, I feel that which I owe to you more vividly than ever.

[LXXXV.] Landsberg, 6th September, 1798.

What a flood of joy and delight pours in upon me from Berlin! You in the Thiergarten, Schlegel returned, and, to crown the matter, in Oranienburg—and independently of this good news, the dear and interesting letters from you all—it is really almost too much. You were only a very short time in Lanke, and yet you have been in ecstasies; and even the bad weather did not act as a lightning-rod to lead off the overcharge of electricity! Pray, initiate me into the mysteries of your unsatisfied wishes. We must really invent something to prevent this electric fluid from increasing too much, and perhaps striking down somewhere. Ah, dear friend, my crops are in such good condition, my dwellings are all so full of peace and comfort, that I may well feel alarmed at the smallest cloud that rises, in whatever quarter it may be, and how much more so when it is in your quarter. I will, for once, show you a cold and unfeeling aspect of my character, and tell you that I do not in the least understand the impression that the country produces upon you, nor why it causes this impression. Are we, then, not comprehended in this great activity? In reality, there is no greater field of activity than the mind—indeed there is none other—and do you not labour in this? Oh, you fertile spirit, you ever active being, you are a true Ceres in the inner world, and yet you place so great a stress on the activity of the outer world, which is, after all, only a means towards other ends, in which man is absorbed in the general mechanism, of which so much is lost on the way, and a thousandth part of which only contributes to the attainment of the real end and goal of all activity! And that bustling and stirring of men that makes them sweat and pant—which they ought, in fact, never to do — how loud and noisy it is compared to our quiet activity? Who ever hears us? What does the world know of our inner natures and their movements? Is it not all a secret to them? Look at what you have done, and at what you are still doing and will in future also effect, and confess to yourself that this doing and forming is infinitely more than all the conquests that man may achieve over the great chaos which he is to shape to his wants.

I have become quite dithyrambic, and that from the pure spirit of polemics! But that I am right there can be no doubt!—and next year I am determined to undertake the journey in the cause of natural science, and to take a view of the great electrifying machine in Lanke.

[LXXXVI.] Landsberg, 9th September, 1798.

Poor friend, that is a dreadful affair indeed! Such a state of anxiety as I was in to know what the misfortune might be! But in these feelings I cannot participate, and in this matter therefore I cannot help you. In fact, I am rather pleased that Schlegel has acted such a piratical part towards you, and has taken possession of all your belongings, whether met with on the open sea or on allied coasts (you will perceive that I have just been reading the newspapers), as legitimate prizes. There is no other means of proceeding in regard to you. And after all, what harm is it that he should know the words that pass between us when he knows so well the inner fount from which they flow, that he might, in default of our communicating them, supplement them himself. His right to them may be deduced from the eternal law, that every man is deserving of that which he knows how to make his own. I say nothing against your objecting to have your confidence seized by violence, that is to say, your active confidence, but to your passive confidence Schlegel has a full claim in right of his double relation, and I demand it for him in virtue of my right. Let us at least constitute one world, and you will see that spheric harmonies will be the result, and that we shall all be happy.

Do not allow your judgment to be confounded. Such persons as they will never go too far. Were I less courageous than I am, and did I not value so highly everything that is imperishable, you would in truth have alarmed me. Do you not then feel the eternity of everything that is?—and is it not a true and moral notion that that which reveals itself thus must have a real existence? In entertaining such fear you are, in fact, committing an act of reprisal, for did not they at one time fear that we were going too far? I cannot either conceive how, looking from our point of view, this height can appear to you so fearfully lofty. We stand, it is true, on another summit; but the theory of measurement, in relation to such altitudes, has not yet attained sufficient development to admit of our determining which is the highest. To those who can only walk along the level ground there seems indeed to be a chasm between these summits, but this is not our concern. But I will dwell no longer on this subject, lest not I, but my letter, should go too far.

Concerning my fifty years,³ let yourself be comforted. How can eternal youth be eternal if there be a question of shortness or length of duration in regard to it? Let us seek for quality in time, and this will always be the best anticipation of its quantity. If we create a golden age for ourselves, is this not the same as if we were to live a hundred years waiting for it to come to us of itself? And then we have, moreover, the satisfaction and merit of having created it ourselves. There will always be a wide difference between a body that is produced chemically and one that nature creates, for nature always works a little after the manner of Lafontaine.

Schleiermacher to his Sister Charlotte.

[LXXXVII.] Berlin, 15th October, 1798.

The interval between my last letter and this, dear Charlotte, seems to me very long, although many another in the course of our correspondence has been equally protracted; but when two such important events as a journey to Landsberg and a visit from Louis Dohna are pressed together in six weeks, the time in which so much takes place seems very long. Yes, only think, a visit from Louis! The great and brilliant autumn manœuvres, which drew together officers from all parts of the Prussian State, also brought him hither. He remained here about three weeks; and, as you may suppose, during that period I spent my time almost exclusively with him and his brother, and thoroughly enjoyed his presence and his friendship. I joined him early every morning to accompany him on his visits to the lions of Berlin, and you may conceive how many things we talked over during our peregrinations. I always took dinner with them, and the evenings we generally spent together at the Herzes’. Wilhelm returned from his grand tour during his brother’s stay here, so that I had no less than three Schlobitters in Berlin, and could thoroughly throw myself into the good old times again, the more so as they have all more or less the tone and the manners of their home. Louis has, as I expected, grown into a truly noble man, gentle and firm, cheerful and loveable. He has gained the affections of all who learnt to know him here, and more particularly of the girls and women, though he is not decidedly a lady’s man. My old friendship and love for him have derived new strength from his presence, and it has made me very happy to find that his for me have not diminished. That I made him tell me a great deal about Schlobitten and everybody there you will readily comprehend. Fortunately, we received during his stay very reassuring accounts of the dear and excellent Friederike. They have quite abandoned her doctors at Schlobitten, and Herz is prescribing for her from this place. Since she has begun his treatment she is so much better that we hope that in four weeks she will be quite restored.

I did not see any evidence in your last letters that you felt uneasy about my mode of life, and therefore, honestly speaking, I did not suspect it, though in a certain measure I expected it. But, dearest, ought not you, to whom I so willingly communicate everything that regards my existence, to have been just as frank as kind Sack, who knows not half so much about me? I only wish that you had expressed yourself more distinctly respecting your actual opinion, for I should then have been able to reassure you more fully than I could him, as he obstinately refuses to see certain things in their true light. One thing I am convinced you will believe on my word, viz., that in my relations with those ladies there is nothing that could, even with the slightest appearance of justice, be unfavourably interpreted; you have not, I am sure, detected any evidence of passion in anything I have said about them, and I declare to you that I do not feel the least indication of anything of the kind. The time that I spend with them is by no means devoted to amusement only, but contributes directly to increase my knowledge and to stimulate my intellect, and I am in like manner useful to them. That Mrs. Herz is a Jewess did not seem at first to make such a very unfavourable impression upon you, and I thought that you felt as I do, that when there is a question of friendship, when we find a mind constituted like our own, we are bound to overlook such matters.⁴ The intercourse with her is not either so incompatible with my outward circumstances as you seem to suppose. Mr. Teller and Mr. Zöllner, two highly esteemed clergymen, both frequently visit the Herzes, though not on the same intimate and affectionate footing as I do; but it seems to me that if it be allowed to set aside an ancient prejudice for a less important purpose, it must be still more justifiable to do so for a higher object, and when the intercourse sought is of a more elevating nature. But tell me frankly, dearest, what it is that makes you anxious in regard to this matter, for I would fain make you feel quite easy on my behalf. That I declined the appointment at Schwedt I have not for one moment regretted; for in reality it was not only my social circle here that I would have been obliged to sacrifice, but, what is more important, my whole literary development. When people accept or exchange livings merely for the sake of emolument or to enable them to marry, it is considered quite natural and legitimate; but if a man takes, not his purse or his marriage into consideration, but his mind, then his motive is impugned. Surely this is unjust from every point of view! However, I do not take it much to heart, and every new opportunity that occurs for me to learn something, and each delightful hour that I spend in converse that verifies, or tranquillizes, or determines my mind and feelings, makes me rejoice at having been so persisting. At the same time I feel convinced that I am performing my professional duties here with as much zeal and assiduity as I could possibly have evinced in Schwedt.

[LXXXVIII.] 8th November.

This has been a long and unpremeditated pause; but during the interval of my silence I have been so oppressed that I have found it impossible to write one sensible line. With regard to myself nothing has occurred, but various distressing incidents relative to my friends have given me a great deal to do, and have affected me very painfully. Mrs. Herz and I exerted ourselves to the utmost. These unfortunate occurrences have afforded me an opportunity of seeing, more clearly than ever, how exactly alike she and I feel and think regarding all the concerns of human life. Even when the prevalent feeling was displeasure at our friends, we were perfectly agreed. If it had so happened that I had married Henrietta Herz, I think we should have made a model couple, the only fear being that we might have been too united. I often amuse myself in a sad way with speculating upon which persons would have suited each other as man and wife; for how often does it not happen, when one sees three or four couples together, that one is struck with what good marriages might ensue if they were allowed to make exchanges. The same is the case with people who are connected with each other in business or who work together; almost all the connections are such as they ought not to be, and might easily be improved. Any position in life which they believe to be advantageous to them, men run after as far as their legs will carry them; but to seek for fellow-beings who are suited to them they will not make a step, and even when they happen to get hold of one, they do not know how to hold him fast. Pardon these remarks; they spring from the experiences I have made in these latter days.

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Footnotes

1. A play upon the name Ulmbaum, which means elm-tree. ↩

2. The original letters of Schleiermacher to Henrietta Herz are not in the hands of the editors, but only such extracts as have been made by herself, and communicated by the kindness of her family. The dates seem, in some instances, to be incorrect. ↩

3. The utmost number of years which Schleiermacher thought he should attain. ↩

4. Henrietta Herz became subsequently a Christian. ↩